Stomach Tied in Knots
by Miss-Rainy-Skies
Summary: They say parakeets wait for death at the bottom of their cage. Ally's was only slightly different.


**A/N: Long overdue one shot honored to Bruno; the best, loudest, most reckless bird in the world. I will miss you forever. There's a reference to The Fault in Our Stars, because that book had been like therapy—other than writing this, of course.**

**Thanks again to Caroline who looked over this and helped me get through the grief over a lost friend.**

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Austin and Ally.**

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**Stomach Tied in Knots**

They say parakeets wait for death at the bottom of their cage.

Owen was still perched high and mighty upon his artificial branch that morning. He chirped twice as she had hauled her backpack over her shoulder.

No one can blame her for leaving him alone in her room that day without a second thought as she headed out to school.

She guesses that his little lungs just gave out and his feathery chest just stopping puffing air in the desperate fight for oxygen.

/-/

_Two weeks prior_

"Has he been getting thinner?" Her best friend's dark eyebrows compress while analyzing the bird.

Ally flips a page in her leather journal, only turning to survey her beloved pet for a moment before turning back to her book settled on her bedroom desk.

"He usually has all his feathers puffed up," she replies, searching for a pen in the clutter of askew items Austin had left her in his wake. "It makes him look way bigger than he really is, so he looks a lot thinner when his feathers are down." She finds a blue pen and scribbles on the back of an old test to check for ink. To her delight, it works.

Her eyes light up in success and she recaptures her partner's attention with her next words. "So, I'm thinking the chorus should start with this." Along with her words, her hands begin scribbling faster and she hums a melody. The blond turns away from the bird and to Ally.

Owen chirps twice and the conversation is put to rest.

/-/

_9 Days Prior_

"Ally, I don't think your dad appreciated you skipping out on work." Austin doesn't bother to knock as he casually saunters into her room. Her door had been open anyways, so there was no point in extending his hand to perform the courteous gesture. "He's really not happy," he adds.

His tone is reprimanding, but he knows her well enough to know there had to be a reason behind her actions.

She looks at him blankly, and he slowly shifts his attention to the bird cage sitting on her desk. Squinting his eyes, he hesitantly steps forward until he is right before her. He slowly peeks into the cage.

Ally clarifies his suspicions somberly. "It's Owen, he hasn't been eating properly."

Opening the cage, she extends a finger for him to perch upon. Instead, the parakeet takes two steps forward before launching into a flying frenzy, making loud, ungodly chirps the entire flight.

"He never flies away from me." She looks heartbroken.

Austin remains silent.

/-/

_One week prior_

Austin taps his foot in discontent, as he debates whether to cover the cage with the cloth placed conveniently between the space of the cage itself and her cabinet. He's not a bird expert, but he can tell when a bird is freezing when he sees one. Owen's little nostrils were flaring in a rapid succession for oxygen and stopped every few seconds to give a fleeting shake.

As terrible as it is, it kind of reminds him of a wet Chihuahua.

Then again, he's _not_ a bird expert. For all he knew, covering up the bird during daytime might only frighten him. There's really not much he can do. He loosens his grip on the cloth and sighs dejectedly.

He pokes his index finger through the rung of the cage in an attempt in comforting the creature. The shaking doesn't let up, but his tired, beady eyes do take notice of the gesture.

"Hang in there, little buddy." His voice is soft as he eyes the tiny fellow. "For Ally's sake."

Because whether Owen liked it or not, they were in this together.

/-/

_3 days prior_

When he sees her—to put it nicely, she is a mess.

Her usual perfectly combed hair is sloppy and untended to. Her dress askew with crinkles and horrible mascara stains. Her eyes so dull and devoid of their usual gleam, he almost cringes upon first glance.

He releases his knapsack with a thud to a turf of grass. He feels at a loss of words. This wasn't how he pictured their lunch date to go. (It wasn't really a date, but if it were up to him he'd refer to all their daily outings as little dates.)

With worry etched deep in his crease of his eyebrows, he examines her sitting cross legged and head down in solemn defeat. He kneels down so he is at the same level as her.

"Hey," he musters as gently as he could. "Hey," he repeats again, when her shoulders contract with harsh but quiet sobs.

He looks around helplessly, before awkwardly wrapping both arms around her rigid figure. This is made even more awkward by the fact that he was still kneeling uncomfortably and the fact that his left leg was cramping. He had been meaning to include more potassium in his diet.

"You—you're here." She sounds so genuinely surprised, yet elated, he forgets all about that stupid cramp in his leg and he fights the desire to shower her face with little kisses.

"Of course I am." He's a little insulted at how surprised she sounds. Did she really expect him to leave her by herself while he went on a picnic?

Instead of flashing him a timid smile that made his heart melt like it always did, she buried her face even further down her arms and a heart-wrenching sob escaped her throat. The very sound made his heart clench and his stomach twist in terrible knots.

"Hey," he says for the third time. He's really not used to comforting people. He's not good at comforting people, especially not _her._

The only response he receives for his intelligent words of comfort is her muffled blubbering and distinct cries.

"Don't cry," he states uselessly, feeling an odd sense of depression as his own guilty tears appear by pricking the corner of his eyes.

This time, instead of ignoring his presence, she pulls him by the pocket of his shirt to greet a batch of her fresh tears. All of a sudden, she's clinging onto him for dear life. Her nose nuzzled so close to his neck, he would feel exhilarated if the situation had been appropriate.

But if seeking comfort in him is what she needs, he'll happily oblige. She looks up at him with tears streaking down her cheeks. The words are all jumbled up on his lips.

"Are you okay?" he chokes out. He realizes the second that the words are out, how stupid the question is. Of course she isn't okay.

If she's okay, would she be sobbing into his shirt? If she's okay, would stormy eyes occupy her usual starry orbs?

She shakes her head twice, keeping eye contact with him the entire time. He debates whether or not to press her for details, but he doesn't need to, because her silent tears continue to cascade down her cheeks. "Owen…passed…"

A pang of anguish hits him deep, his jaw retracts in shock and he feels a flood of sympathetic emotions for the girl in his arms. How did he not think of that?

He dips his head down to inhale the smell of her chestnut hair and rubs her back affectionately with one of his hands and leans his head on her shoulder.

The sobs continue to escape her at a rapid rate. He crinkles his forehead in his own grief, fingers still desperately planted at the small of her back. "I'll be here," he states palpably, voice hardening in honesty. He wants to sound convincing. He wants so desperately for her to believe him. He wants her to know that he doesn't plan on leaving her.

Instead, she just shakes her head repetitively, nonsensical noises escaping her lips. The grip on his shirt doesn't let up, and for the briefest of seconds he's thankful his skin is still intact with his flesh. "I will be here," he repeats. "I'm your best friend," he tries again, albeit brokenly, hoping to god his words are still reaching her.

-/-

_One day prior_

"Blue was his favorite color," she offers as explanation while sprinkling her tenth card to Owen with blue sparkles from a tiny container.

He doesn't know how she could manage to figure out a bird's favorite color, but it's Ally and Ally is never wrong. So he waits patiently for his turn with the blue sparkles and hides his blush when their fingers come in brief contact while passing the small container.

He attempts to distribute the blue sparkles delicately and evenly like she had done—he'd been watching her work for a while now—but his fingers fumble clumsily, not bearing any resemblance to her dainty fingers hard at work. He licks his lips in concentration, holding his card up. To his dismay, most the sparkles fall off his handiwork.

"Not enough glue," he notes, reaching sheepishly for the paste. She gives him a tiny smile, sadness still apparent in her dark eyes and he nearly knocks the bottle over with his knuckles at the sight, but catches himself right on time. As he squeezes the bottle of paste with his fingers, the cap pops off and he's left with a grand mess.

There Ally was, with her dozen of cards already made for her beloved bird and here he was, a sloppy card at the ready, the parakeet on the cover looking closer to a beaver than any other species.

He shakes away the negativity. It's not like Ally to fixate on minor details. So he flips his card open, careful not to stain the table with the glue on the front as he scribbles his message to the bird.

_You were a good bird. I'm sorry I let you out of the cage that one time at the mall…and those two other times that Ally still doesn't know about._

_Ally misses you. I miss you, too. _

_You better miss Ally. You lucked out, getting the best owner in the world._

It may not have been the best fitting letter for a funeral, but he's satisfied with the result.

Because Owen deserved to be missed.

_Present_

"This is it," she mutters guiltily, tears dripping down her chin and tainting the soil with her sorrow.

She turns to survey his solemn expression before sniffling loudly and ungracefully, her hand moving to wipe a few tears before hanging limp by her side. She swallows thickly before continuing.

"Owen, I want you to know that even if I might have not been the best owner…it really means the world to me that you were with me through so many important moments in my life." She sniffles again. "I know my rambling may be annoying to listen to at times, but thank you for your years of friendship." She squeaks slightly in sorrow and hurriedly begins to collect herself.

His eyes stay tentatively trained to the handmade cards (most made by her, but he can spot Dez and Trish's along with his own slightly crooked one) cluttering the ground and the tiny hand-made tomb stone. He feels so goddamn useless, he doesn't even bother an attempt at consoling her.

"You will be missed," he adds stonily, voice coming out too deep and too emotionally rigid.

"You're in a better place now." Her voice held an air of finalization.

And honestly, he wants to reach out and take her hand in his, but all he can do is wonder how there could be a better place if Ally's not there.

/-/

He remembers chasing the tiny bastard all around her room. He can still taste the profanities he cursed while plucking feathers out from his sweater. He can still hear the merry ringing of her laughter when the incidents occurred.

The practice room door swings open and she emerges. She offers him a nod and a tiny smile, taking her place beside him on the piano bench.

The gap between them is bigger than it used to be.

He mentally slaps himself for feeling disappointed. This is not the time for him to _make a move_ on her, or to ponder his lifelong crush on her. He really needs to get some sense into his head. She needs space right now. He can give her space.

But he's so worried about her that he's got a constant headache. His words surprise even himself, and he doesn't comprehend them until they are spoken. "Remember that I'm here, right?"

Her head snaps up, and she nods almost mandatorily. Her gaze drops and she fidgets with her fingers. "I'm glad I have you," she answers, so quietly that it was barely audible. But he still catches it.

A timid shake of his head speaks on behalf of his assurances. "You'll always have me." The hand that has been sitting lifelessly on the keys of the piano moves to grip her hand protectively.

"Thank you," she mutters again, even quieter than the first time. So softly that he has to ponder whether or not he imagined it. The movement of her fingers still and he looks down at her in wonder. Her watery eyes are once again filled with enough love and sincerity that it makes him ache for her. "Really, thank you." This time her voice is clear, as is the message.

He chokes on the words he wants to say. His eyes glaze over her tenderly. Looking away, he catches his breath; chugging the sentimental bullshit he's in serious danger of spewing everywhere back into his system.

He chortles. "You couldn't get rid of me, even if you tried," he jokes, in an attempt to lighten the mood. But she doesn't laugh. She just grips his fingers tighter and quips her frown. This effectively rids them of the space on the piano bench he was so worried about. He gulps.

"I don't want to get rid of you," she murmurs daftly. She seems so sad that he doesn't have the heart to tell her he was kidding.

He's about to open his mouth to offer some more consolation, when she swiftly pecks the corner of his mouth. She pulls away quickly, not giving him close to enough time to think. "I don't want to get rid of you," she repeats, looking in his eyes seriously.

"I—" He stares at her in shocked silence, brows high upon his countenance in astonishment. "You—" Settling for mute silence, he touches a hand to the cheek she kissed with the hand not holding hers. The corners of his lips quirk in happiness. His exhausted exterior is replaced with a throbbing pound of his hopeful heart.

She returns his smile weakly, her eyelashes still wet. A soft giggle escapes her and she presses her index finger to his lips cutely. His chest feels like it's about to explode with joy and he nuzzles her finger with the tip of his nose.

He gives her a rough smirk. "I'm glad to be worthy of your companionship." Her vibrant smile returns completely at his comment.

"Taking advantage of the despondent girl, are we?" she teases, ruffling his already unruly hair.

He chuckles, before he plays along and pretends to act appalled, complete with the scoffs and eye roll. "What! No," he swipes a casual hand through the air and pretends to check his non-existent watch. "You've totally got another five minutes or so before we make out," he jokes.

Her laugh rings in his ears, making his vision fuzzy and his brain melt. She moves her hands to rest on his shoulders. She leans closer to him. Close enough so he can smell her minty scent. Close enough, he can just feel the race of her pulse. She gives him a sultry smile. "That doesn't sound like such a bad idea."

As soon as the statement drifts in the air, her lips are on his. His breath hitches, his eyes fling themselves shut so tightly that he fears his eyelids will bruise. And he allows himself to tangle his fingers in the sweet, sweet curls of her hair.

To lose himself to the sweet intoxication that is _her_.

She pulls away to give him a watery chuckle and it's nowhere near the angelic chorus of her usual laugh, but she does manage a tiny smile right before her lips connect with his again.

-/-

He doesn't know how they became a thing.

Heck, he doesn't even know if they are a thing.

He just knows that he is always the one there to kiss away her tears when they make salty rivers down her cheeks.

He knows that he's the one to hold her hand when she's been quiet for quite awhile. He knows he's the one who will gently press his cool fingers against her cheek when hazy clouds drift through her eyes for too long and her attention wavers long enough to cut conversation short.

He knows he's the one she goes to when she's having an extra bad day.

Their relationship goes unnamed.

It gets frustrating sometimes. He knows he has strong feelings for her, and he knows he wants them to be official. Not for everybody to know, just so he can sleep at night. But he respects her enough. She's going through a rough time and he'd been sleeping too much anyway.

However, people are nosy. Questions are relentless. He never has an answer. Not to his parents, not to his classmates, not to himself.

She doesn't talk about it so he doesn't bring it up. He knows she may just be trying to find solace in something familiar, a rebound you may say. He's totally in danger of reaching his next heartache.

Some days he'll work up the courage to ask her, he'll have a mental speech prepared; he'll try and go for the casual, but serious approach.

But then she'll smile at him and he'll smile back and he'll curse himself for sinking further into this messed up establishment.

He figures she needs all the support she can get.

Besides, it would be a privilege to have his heart broken by her.

-/-

In all his planning, he's always been the one to initiate the talk. He's always been the one who wants to give…whatever they are, a proper label. That's why he's so surprised when she asks to talk to him in private one day. She had pulled him aside in the comfort of their practice room and is now standing exactly two steps away from him.

Two steps. There are two steps between them and he might be over-thinking things, but he's pretty sure the two steps are symbolic for something. He just needs to find out what.

His legs feel like jelly, his brain is on fire.

She's looking at him seriously with unblinking eyes, looking so calm he wants to rip his hair out.

He swallows nervously, his saliva hot and uncomfortable, constricting almost painfully down his own throat. He fiddles pathetically on everything his fingers can touch, but discovers that he finds comfort in nothing. If only it were appropriate to stroke her hair.

He's afraid she's going to tell him that she doesn't need him anymore. That his _therapy _sessions has worked miracles, and that she's all better now. He doesn't want to know that he's the medication she's no longer required to take. He doesn't want to hear her forced apologies before she establishes them once again as _friends._

He can almost feel the sweat prick at his forehead as he prepares himself for what will ultimately be the death of him.

Her dark brown eyes glisten with whatever emotion she's expressing and against all odds he'd been familiar with; she intertwines their hands together. He can now properly read the anxiety in her gaze and her lips turn upwards as if she is waiting for his approval.

His mouth falls slightly agape before it relaxes into a relieved smile and he can finally feel the oxygen going through his lungs again at the contact. He exhales softly while she beams at him with all she's got and he just knows that they're gonna be okay.

A good kind of knot twists in his stomach.


End file.
